Sherlock's mind
by SophieHolmesWatson
Summary: Sherlock is ill and it falls to John to look after him. He see's something he thought he would never see and finds it hard to deal with. Sherlock does something the doctor never expected. This is a look into Sherlock's mind and how truly human he is.
1. Chapter 1 Something's wrong

Sherlock paced the flat, hands waving enthusiastically as he rattled off deduction after deduction under his breath, almost forgetting the other two in the room. "I've got it Lestrade!" he turned triumphantly to face the DI and John. Anderson was hovering behind them with a look of disgust on his features. Sherlock's face was alight with the usual glee but he was in fact rather subdued, not explaining, nor saying how fantastic he was. His alabaster skin was pale, paler than normal. "The bodies clearly indicate that…" he swallowed thickly, blinking his vision clear, "that the son was obviously not involved but that his…" he trailed off towards the end. His face screwed up momentarily and he uttered something entirely incoherent softly before dropping like a lead weight to the floor.

John was a doctor; he knew the look of somebody who was about to collapse. Sweat at the brow, colour draining from his already so very pale face, the dullness to his usually so sharp grey eyes. He rushed forward in an attempt to catch the detective but he wasn't quite quick enough. "Sherlock!" Immediately he was down by his side, kneeling and reaching over to pull him onto his back. He ran his eyes over him for any sigh of visible injury. Upon seeing none, he gently tipped back his head and pressed to fingers to the side of his neck. He undid a few of his buttons to help him breathe and looked over his shoulder, "Will one of you get me a wet cloth? And bring over the orange bag under the sofa." He turned his attention back to his unconscious roommate, concern etched across his face. Sherlock's pulse thudded weakly beneath his fingertips, almost sluggishly so. "Sherlock?" he tapped his face softly, pulling back one of his eyelids. His eyes were rolled back and he dropped the lid, shaking him a little roughly, "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" he asked gruffly. After getting only the softest of noises for an answer, he continued his examination. He placed the back of his hand against his forehead. He was coming down with a pretty intense fever.

He looked up as a wet cloth was handed to him by Lestrade, the bag placed beside him. John opened his mouth to say, "Would you two mind…" Just as Lestrade spoke, "We'll just go a…" they both stopped and nodded. Lestrade and Anderson shut the door softly behind them. He placed the cloth over Sherlock's forehead. The cold made the detective rouse, his eyelids fluttering and slowly his eyes opened to reveal dulled grey irises. "John?" he asked gruffly, attempting to sit up straight away. "Yes it's me. Don't get up." He chided gently, placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back down. "I want you to sit still for a little while and tell me what's going on." He said softly, turning and rooting in his medical bag. He pulled out a blood pressure cuff, a stethoscope and a thermometer. The thermometer was an electric one and he pushed it into one of his ears. He just had to wait until it beeped. "When did you start feeling ill? This doesn't just happen straight away. So you weren't telling me." He said dryly.

Sherlock looked up, "I can normally push away illness. It is a stupid human defect, utterly useless and not worth my time. I assumed this would be the same as before." He muttered, almost petulantly. Trust Sherlock to be so upset, not because he felt ill or sick but because he couldn't stop himself becoming ill in the first place. "But…" John supplied, "You haven't ate all week and so this happened." He shook his head, "You eat so poorly that your entire immune system is shot." He rolled his eyes and the ear thermometer beeped. He pulled it out and read the little numbers; 39.9 degrees. Yes, Sherlock was ill. Very ill in fact. He looked at it worryingly. "Normally I would take you to the hospital but I think I can treat it here. I know you would prefer that." He pulled out a bag of saline, tubing and a needle. "Let me check your breathing. Sit up a sec." He wrapped an arm around his back and hauled him into a sitting position. "Stupid." Sherlock grumbled and John bit his lip angrily. "No, Sherlock .What's stupid is you letting yourself get in this state." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, softening at the wounded animal look on the detective's face.

He placed the small disk of metal under the back of his shirt and slid it up, putting the rubber parts in his ears. "Breathe in for me." He said softly and Sherlock inhaled, "Is there any pain in your chest? Stomach? Quite a headache I imagine." He moved the disk down a bit, "Breathe out for me." Sherlock exhaled and shook his head, "No pain. Except my head." He muttered bitterly and John rolled his eyes. "That'll teach you." He placed the stethoscope bag in his bag as Sherlock pouted childishly. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and began to push up his sleeve for the blood pressure cuff. Sherlock stiffened and tried to pull out of his grip, "John, I am fine!" he muttered quickly. John looked down, confused as to why the detective was struggling so much. He frowned deeply. Were they…? Scars. Hundreds of them. And he had only rolled his sleeve up to his elbow. Some were bright white, some pink and a few were in the earliest stage of healing. John was at a loss for words, he just looked up at Sherlock's deeply ashamed features and bit his lip. "Sherlock." He whispered softly and pulled the man into his arms out of instinct. "It's okay. You don't have to hide from me."


	2. Chapter 2

Amazingly, Sherlock did not pull away. Okay, he didn't reciprocate the hug but he didn't pull away. That was something. Eventually John pulled back, flushing softly. "Let's get you to bed, okay? No arguing." He said firmly, sliding his other arm around his friend and helping to haul the long limbed man to his feet. He still looked pale, startlingly so. John wasn't sure that he was not going to collapse again. He helped shuffle the man to his bed and placed him on top of the covers, "Do you feel cold? So I know whether to get blankets." He asked softly and when Sherlock nodded moodily he chuckled softly and ruffled his sweaty curls. "Chin up, Sherlock. Might never happen."

Sherlock shot him a glare and John just laughed, shaking his head and wandering to his room. Gathering armfuls of blankets, he walked back to Sherlock to see him under his duvet. It was tucked under his chin and he looked evermore the petulant child. He tucked the blankets around his friend and left the room again. He came back with one ibuprofen pill and one acetaminophen pill. Alternating doses of them both would help prevent an accidental overdose of one or the other. He handed Sherlock a cold glass of water. "Swallow the pills and finish that glass. It will help with that nasty fever of yours." He used his 'I'm in charge' voice and the detective sullenly did as he was told. He had no qualms about voicing his distaste however but slowly the mumblings turned into rather incoherent babble.

Placing the wet cloth from earlier over his forehead, he waited until he was definitely asleep before pulling up his sleeve. Now that he had longer to look, he could see that the scars were in lines, some deep, some shallow, some long, some short. They all varied in direction and colouring but one thing was certain for them all. They were self-administered marks and judging by the scars, they had been done using a sharp instrument. Mostly likely a knife or a razor blade. John swallowed thickly, tracing a finger over a few particularly deep ones on his wrist, just under the heel of his palm.

Feeling vaguely sick, and sensing that he was intruding into something Sherlock did not want him to see, he picked up the needle and within seconds had the makeshift IV up and running. He hooked the bag over the lamp and prayed that Sherlock didn't move much in his sleep. Unlikely with the way the fever would be bubbling away at his mind.

John walked slowly into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle. A brief spasm of pain ran through his 'bad' leg and he winced, kneading his thigh. It had gone within seconds and he wandered briefly what had caused it. After finishing making his tea, he flopped onto the sofa, placing his mug down and pulling his laptop onto his lap. He felt unnecessarily guilty as he pulled up google and typed in 'Self harm in adults'.

John was a doctor; he had seen people who hurt themselves. He wasn't a psychiatrist but he helped refer people who came to him to therapists. He had even stitched up a few self-inflicted wounds in his time. But this time it was different. He knew that self-harm could occur at any age, he had just not seen it happen to anyone over the age of about seventeen. Not only was Sherlock an adult but he was… Sherlock. John had never believed that Sherlock would do that. It hadn't ever occurred to him. To him, Sherlock was a machine sometimes. Didn't feel, didn't care. Obviously he knew that Sherlock did care, very much so. He had let John see that numerous times. If anything, this, just proved it even more.

'It can feel to other people that these things are done calmly and deliberately – almost cynically. But we know that someone who self-harms is usually in a state of high emotion, distress and unbearable inner turmoil. Some people plan it in advance, for others, it happens on the spur of the moment. Some people self-harm only once or twice, but others do it regularly - it can be hard to stop.' He muttered as his eyes scanned the page. "Oh, Sherlock." He whispered softly. How had he not noticed? How long had it been happening? Why? So many frenzied questions ran around his mind. Sherlock was hurting. Obviously very badly, and he hated himself for not noticing. For not seeing like he should have.

'Common problems include, physical or sexual abuse, feeling depressed, feeling bad about yourself, relationship problems with partners, friends, and family, being unemployed, or having difficulties at work. You may be more likely to harm yourself if you feel that people don't listen to you, hopeless, isolated, alone, out of control, powerless – it feels as though there's nothing you can do to change anything.'

John slammed the lid down on his laptop and pushed his hands through his hair, tea forgotten. Oh jesus, what was he going to do? He had to help Sherlock, he had to try at least. But would the younger man even accept his help? He just didn't know what to do. Standing, he made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. He checked his friend and made sure he was comfortable before pulling over a chair and sitting down, reaching across and resting his hand on Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't feel his hand, he was mumbling again, turning over feverishly every few minutes.

John hummed softly under his breath, prepared to keep the silent vigil by his friend's side until he awoke. He would never leave the man alone again.


End file.
